


Eggnog?

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [14]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other, Quiet Grand Gestures, aziraphale enjoys the holiday aesthetics much more now that there's no heaven to interfere, crowley enjoys aziraphale being free to enjoy himself, hand holding, it should almost be illegal, these two are ridiculously soft for each other, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 14 for the amazing advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale has two favorite colors, and they're not what Crowley thought.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 12
Kudos: 150





	Eggnog?

“When did you get so festive, angel?”

Crowley takes the mug Aziraphale hands him and uses it to gesture at the shop. The sweep of his arm is meant to encompass the whole image: evergreen boughs, lit from within by warm white bulbs, stretch across the tops of the bookshelves, while cut crystal stars that hang invisibly from the ceiling - as if by miracle - spin lazily in place, amplifying and reflecting the light until the whole shop dances with it.

There are curling red and gold ribbons rippling down the exposed sides of the shelves, with more warm white lights twinkling among them. A tree, far beyond the size any reasonable person would expect to fit through the doorway, takes up the entirety of the central circle; it, too, is festooned in warm white and gold and red, wrapped in flocking and winding red ribbon, gold ornaments peeking through the needles like shy surprises. It’s so tall the uppermost branches are out of sight near the ceiling, but Crowley knows no angel nor star tops it; this is a decoration, not a symbol.

The single wave of his arm is not enough to indicate all of this, so Crowley gestures again with both mug and free hand, turning a brief circle on the spot. “You’ve never been so thorough, in all the years you’ve had this shop.”

Delicately painted snowflakes, picked out in white and silver, cascade down every window, and evergreen boughs drape along the sills. A mistletoe ball hangs over the entry to the back room, where the angel had been roasting chestnuts in the fireplace when Crowley arrived. Whether Nat King Cole had been on the gramophone by serendipity or design, he hasn’t asked.

“I like the way it looks,” Aziraphale replies. “This is the first time I’ve been able to do exactly as I wanted.”

There are no angels, here, save the one by his side; no symbols, no icons, no reminders as to the ‘reason for the season,’ as so many are fond of these days. They’ve already had two rousing discussions about the status of evergreen trees in holiday culture, and whether they can be fully divorced from various religious entanglements. Doubtless they will have dozens more this season alone. But it’s all in good fun - they’ve already swapped argumentative perspectives once, and will likely do so again.

They can do that, now. It’s oddly freeing.

“And you wanted this color palette?” Crowley is trying very hard not to read too deeply into Aziraphale’s decorative choices, but the red is an exact match for his oxblood hair, and gold ornaments wink like eyes from the depths of the evergreen behemoth.

“Oh, yes, absolutely. They’re my favorite colors.”

Crowley’s heart gives a helpless flutter. “I thought you liked creams and blues.”

“That’s just what looks best on me, I’m afraid. I couldn’t _wear_ red and gold; they’re such bold, brave colors, and I’m -”

“If you say something bad about yourself…” Crowley warns.

“- I’m comfortable,” Aziraphale finishes with a fond smile. “Too comfortable for such sartorial bravery. But I love these colors, love having them around me. They feel like home.”

Crowley is very busy trying not to melt on the spot when the angel delivers the killing blow:

“This gold is the exact shade of your eyes in firelight, my dear.”

Aziraphale is smiling at him, soft and open and beautiful; Crowley takes a sip of tea to give himself a second to recover, and chokes in surprise. Instead of tea, he’s gotten a mouthful of milk and vanilla, sugar and the richness of…

“Eggnog?” he sputters, and Aziraphale’s smile dims.

“Oh, did I make it wrong? I haven’t tried -”

“No, ’s just - wasn’t expecting it, is all.” He peers into the mug where a very un-tea-like liquid sits, takes a real sip. Savors it, lets the rich cream and sugar sit on his tongue. Swallows. “It’s perfect, angel.”

The smile is back to beatific, brilliant but somehow still soft, as if he knows what it’s doing to Crowley’s heart and is trying not to overwhelm him. It’s the smile from the first day of the rest of their lives, that smile from their table at the Ritz; the smile that sets his heart to pounding even now, months and confessions and countless viewings later, and yet it still hasn’t lost an ounce of impact. Another moment of this and he’ll be lost to it.

“I know you like sweet,” Aziraphale replies, and he _is_ lost.

It’s so much, too much; his heart is going to burst, he’ll discorporate on the spot if he doesn’t do something. So Crowley switches the mug to his left hand, drops his right to the side, where Aziraphale’s own hand dangles. Brushes their fingers together, hesitant, soft, soft as the angel’s smile, before coiling his around to tangle their hands together, palm to palm, fingers interlacing with breathless ease.

“Thank you,” he says. For the eggnog, for the colors. For the stars drifting along the ceiling, seven and eight pointed and starburst too, that he is starting to suspect are there for more than aesthetics, more than light amplification. For the softness. For the smile. For the hand quietly offered.

For this. For us.

He says none of this. It’s hard, after millennia of tongue-biting, of self-silencing, of waiting. The words get trapped in his throat, thick and tight and heavy - but now, oh, now Aziraphale hears them, unspoken but so loud.

“I love you,” Aziraphale replies, and the tight bundle of words dissolves, the pressure lifts.

Crowley squeezes their hands together. “I love you too.”


End file.
